


Overactive Imagination

by ThereBeDragons



Category: Sherlock (TV) RPF
Genre: But it's all in my head so that's okay, F/M, Fluff, Ill-advised Google-searching, Imaginary Benedict, Imaginary writing career too, Just people, M/M, Multi, No animals I promise, Smut, Unsafe Sex, What else do you think about when you're driving?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 06:59:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13735581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThereBeDragons/pseuds/ThereBeDragons
Summary: One-shot fluff I wrote years ago, before Benedict was married. Obviously.No bunnies were harmed in the making of this fanfiction.





	Overactive Imagination

**Author's Note:**

> Un-beta'd! Let me know if you catch any typos or inconsistencies. Tyvm!

Driving. Counting the cars on the New Jersey Turnpike. I talked with Benedict most of the time.

We met at a conference. In London. A writers’ conference, obviously.

It’s the drinks party before the conference really starts, a getting-to-know-you cocktail hour that brings out everyone’s worst: the nerves in those tending toward nervousness, the pretention in those who favor pretentiousness. The over-drinking or over-eating or over-sharing. Basically hell, but I wouldn’t have missed it for anything. I’m perched on a stool at the bar, sipping a tonic and lime, watching the crowd, scanning nametags. There aren’t a whole lot of other Americans here; it’s mostly Brits, with a few other Europeans who write in English. I’m happy just looking for now. I don’t know anyone, not in person, and I’m not going to go up to someone and gush, “I love your work!” The bar stool is comfortably padded; I kick my legs against the rungs and admire the dark wood of the hotel’s bar, listening to the dance music that’s piped softly through the room.

Lady Gaga’s on. I grin, mouth the words as I scan the room. I move my shoulders a little in time to the music, singing under my breath: “ _Baby, when it’s love if it’s not rough it isn’t fun_ ,” when I catch his eye. Or he catches mine. He’s laughing, laughing at my singing along with Lady Gaga. I smile back and raise my drink at him, my face flushed. Is it really him?

It is. He threads his way through the crowd, people staring up at him as he passes. It is him.

“Hello.” God, that voice! Like whiskey and cream and the purr of a jungle cat.

“Hi.” I try not to squeak back.

“Benedict Cumberbatch,” he says, extending his hand.

“Yes, I know,” I laugh again. “Cassidy Fulton. Cass.”

“Cheers.” He clinks his tumbler against mine. Scotch? Bourbon? It’s a rich amber, only a splash left in the glass. “Seems like you’re enjoying your drink. Maybe I’ll have one of those next.”

I raise my glass and swirl the liquid around. “It’s just tonic,” I tell him sheepishly. “Believe it or not, this is how I am sober. You can imagine what alcohol might do…”

He raises his eyebrows at me and quirks another grin. I’m mesmerized by his face. Up close his eyes appear feline and almost predatory, but his expression is gentle. The combination makes my head spin, and it takes me a moment to process that he’s speaking again. He’s asking about my writing.

“What? Oh, my books. No, I’m sure wouldn’t have read any of them. I have a couple for children and young adults, and my adult books are mostly queer…um, gay and lesbian-themed. You probably haven’t even heard of them.”

“Really?” He tilts his head and his eyes sweep over me. “Gay and lesbian themes?”

“Yes, well, a little of everything,” I reply nervously, staring at the lime in my drink. “Male-male, female-female, male-female…I do it all. I mean,” I stammered, “I write about it all…it would be difficult for me to actually _do_ some of that, you know. The male-male stuff, in particular.” I hazard a glance of at his face. Christ, those eyes! They’re crinkled up and he’s laughing at me again.

“Yes, quite.”

“Do you write?” I ask.

He nods his head slowly. “Thinking about it,” he says. “This seemed like a good place to start.” He waves his glass airily at the crowd of writers.

“Not really,” I said as gently as I could. “No one’s going to tell you anything helpful here. They all just want to show off in front of each other. Posers. Like a bunch of peacocks, only with words instead of tail-feathers. Better just to sit down and start writing instead of listening to other people talk about writing. Anyway, people would read what you wrote regardless,” I reassure him. “They’d read your shopping lists. Look at Madonna.”

“I’m no Madonna,” he scoffs.

You’re better, I thought. At least _your_ accent is real. But what I say is, “Yes, clearly. You want people to respect your writing, not just read it because you’re famous.”

He meets my eyes again and dips his head once in agreement. “But you say this isn’t the place to start? Then why are you here?”

I waved my hand dismissively. “I’m already an established writer. I can make some good connections, maybe get people to blurb my next novel, that kind of thing. Anyway, how could I pass up a trip to London?”

We watch the room together for a moment, the people sizing each other up, the air kisses and fake-enthusiastic greetings.

“Posers you say?” he murmurs. “Peacocks? Hmm.” He turns back to me with a wicked grin. Oh, my. “So, tell me how you write male-male sex scenes. Since you don’t have the…equipment for it.”

I bark out a laugh. “I read widely and I have a great imagination,” I say. “I use the experiences I have and just…picture how it would go. The Internet is very helpful, too.”

“I can imagine it is.”

“But really,” I continue. “Can’t you imagine it all? I can picture sex as a dog, or a cat, or…a horse.” He raises his eyebrows. “Or even…with a horse. Or anything. A bunny. Ack, no, scratch that. The bunny sounds like a terrible idea…but you know what I mean! Oh god, I swear, I’ve never had sex with a pet, nor have I ever been a man having sex with another man, but I can extrapolate from my experiences. With women, um, mostly, but some men, too,” I add, looking up at him, grinning even though my face is hot and I’m probably red from embarrassment. “Overactive imagination, you know what I mean…”

He’s laughing again, laughing at me but I could see the spark in his eye when I said I’ve had experiences with men.

I lean in a little closer. “It’s awfully loud in here,” I say quietly. “We could go someplace quieter to talk. About writing.”

“Yes, about writing,” he says. “Brilliant.”

            *

Still driving. It’s harder than I thought to fill in his dialogue. I mean, would he really ask about male-male sex?

This is my fantasy, I tell myself sternly. Imaginary Benedict can say whatever I’d like. But there’s something else I need to research first…

I pull into the next rest stop, Richard Stockton (who was that? Actually, don’t care enough to look it up), park in the shade and pull out the IPad, turning on my 4G wireless. I can use a little data: this counts as an emergency. A research emergency.

My Google search of “percentage English men circumcised” turns up the statistic that only about 16 percent of them are. Hmmm. The fanfictions are filled with Sherlock’s and John’s foreskins being slid around, but I haven’t the foggiest idea what an uncut penis would look like erect. I google that, too.

AAH! MY EYES! THEY’RE BEING BURNED OUT OF MY HEAD!

WHY DON’T I EVER LEARN!

I snap the IPad shut and glare at the family walking by my car, staring in the window at me and my IPad of penises. “It’s research,” I mutter under my breath, but wait until they’ve passed before I go inside.

When I’m settled back in the car with my iced latte I put _Poker Face_ on repeat and then head for the turnpike again. Where was I?

My mind skitters over the next minutes - hours? - until I get Benedict up to my hotel room. I play with the dialogue again…I wonder if there’s any way I can get him to say, “You had me at ‘bunny’”…?

            *

My hotel room is beautiful. I spare a few moments of the fantasy for its clean, modern lines and huge white bed. Huge white bed, the sheets of which I will not have to wash. Spotless pale rug, which I will not have to vacuum. Sparkling windows, dust-free artistic lighting. Okay, enough of the décor porn; on to the main course.

The instant the door closes behind us we’re on each other, my fingers wrapping themselves in his hair, his hands cupping my ass and pressing me to him. I run my lips up his neck and tease them around his mouth, standing on tiptoe to reach. He stoops to kiss me, first a soft brush, his tongue tracing the lines of my lips. Oh god, his mouth! His mouth is a miracle, both soft and hard, that full bottom lip and cupid’s bow on top. I kiss him back, open-mouthed and fierce now. It’s been so many years since I’ve felt someone go hard against me, I’d forgotten how gratifying that is. I suck his tongue while rubbing my body against his, his back against the door.

He makes a noise deep in his throat: “Nnghh.”

“Oh god, come here,” I breathe, pulling him over to the bed. (That huge white clean bed! We’re going to mess it all up and someone else is going to wash the sheets!)

We’re trying to get out of our clothes without breaking the kiss, toeing off shoes, unbuttoning shirts and unzipping trousers. His body is miraculous, too, all pale and muscular in tight black boxer-briefs (or do only young boys and gay men wear boxer briefs? Must do more research when not driving)…tight boxer briefs that show off his abs and thighs and the most glorious erection straining against the black material. I’m in black underwear, too, and he unhooks by bra and runs his fingers across my hard nipples, making me gasp into his mouth. My abs look amazing. (Note to self: must go back to Pilates soon.)

He yanks the covers off the bed and lowers me down. We wriggle out of our underpants (just “pants” in British English, need to remember that), rubbing against each other on the bed, and my hand stretches down to stroke his cock. Hard, soft, thick, hot, wet, oh my god I’m so wet just from touching him, so ready, but not like this, it’s been too long…

“C’mere.” I pull him up, adjusting the pillows so he’s sitting up and leaning back against the headboard. “I want to see you,” I whisper, straddling him on my knees as he ducks his head to lick my breasts. I pinch his nipples, earning another one of those cunt-wrenching groans from him, and then lift myself up to rub against his cock. I spread my legs, spread my lips, the head of his cock just teasing me at first. His hands brace my ass and help guide me down, and I slide him into me with one push, trying to relax through the unfamiliar sensation.

(Condoms? We’d probably need a condom, though I make a face at the age-old memory, the squeak and grab of latex, dulling the feel of skin. Where would we get one? Would there be some in the mini-bar at a fancy hotel like that? You know what? To hell with that. This is my imaginary sex scene, we can do it without the condoms.)

I catch my breath and open my eyes. I lift my hands to trace the planes of his face with my fingers, touching his cheekbones, his lips, the ridge of bone above his spellbinding eyes.

“You okay?” he asks, and I nod, kissing him again, letting my tongue dip into his mouth as we begin to move.

Slowly to start, siding up and down on him, his hands on my hips and his lips on my neck. Ohhh, I press down, he’s so deep, so hot and I speed up the tempo, listening to our breathing catch and hitch in our throats. He’s making a noise like a gravelly purr and I’m praying and swearing at the same time, “Oh god, oh fuck, oh Jesus, oh Christ fuck _mother of god_ ,” and he reaches down to rub my clit while fucking me and OH MY GOD isn’t that the most mind-blowing thing and I make a noise like something is being broken inside of me. I’ve lost the even tempo now and am just slamming my hips into him, gasping as he rubs me and I look at that beautiful face and feel him in and out of me and he presses his hand harder and something shatters. I come. I come in waves, crying out wordlessly, beyond words and thought, just coming in shudders and aftershocks until I’m ready to collapse but realize he’s still hard inside me.

He slides us to the side and down so that he’s on top now, and I wrap my legs as high as I can across his strong back, pushing my hips against his. It only takes a few thrusts before he’s in so deep and tensing against me, he’s making a keening noise and I’m praying and cursing again, “Oh god yes, fuck me like that, you’re so hard, you’re so hot, oh fuck, oh Benedict, I’m so wet for you, oh Christ, come for me, come inside me, Benedict…”

“Oh god,” he gasps, “Oh god,” and he’s coming, and I feel the spasms inside as he pumps against me, his back arching and ass clenching and his face, oh my god if that isn’t the sexiest, most gorgeous thing to see him coming above me, his face as he cries out and thrusts and thrusts until finally he collapses on top of me. His ribs press into me as he pants in small gasping breaths and I clutch his back with my legs and cradle his head against me. The back of his hair is slick with sweat and I can’t suppress my smile. I kiss his neck, his cheekbones, his eyes, his lips.

“I must be getting heavy,” he murmurs against my cheek before shifting to the side. He’s still in me, though, and I can feel him softening but I don’t want him to pull out yet. I tighten my muscles around him and he makes a surprised kind of hum in his throat, like, “Hmm, that has possibilities,” and I send a silent thank-you to my midwife who’s always on me about doing my Kegel exercises.

“That was wonderful,” I breathe into his mouth as we kiss again, lazy and sensuous this time, enjoying the languid and heavy-limbed way we’re lying all tangled up, sweaty and sticking together deliciously. “Thank you. For coming over to me at the conference. For coming to my room.” I glance at him through half-lidded eyes, suddenly feeling shy.

 His mouth quirks against mine. “How could I resist?” His voice, barely above a whisper, rumbles though me, and I feel it all the way to my toes. He nips my earlobe with his teeth and breathes in my ear: “You had me at ‘bunny.’”

          ***End***

Imaginary Benedict really helped me through some tough times! I hope he helps you out, too :)  



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